the distance between i and u
by skyxii
Summary: “Those eyes. Todoroki didn’t know it yet, but those eyes would change everything.” Midoriya Izuku is the prized commodity of a red-light district brothel. Todoroki Shouto is a rookie cop under the watch of his father. Worlds apart, these two strangers become entangled in each other’s paths, a dangerous crime syndicate, and secrets they both intend to keep.


Apathy. All Midoriya Izuku knew was apathy.

But in the twilight directly following a particularly rough client, Midoriya came to greet exhaustion with almost equal familiarity. Bruises and hickeys had been littered drunkenly across his body, forming a poor man's game of connect-the-dots, and soreness became a heavy blanket weighing down Midoriya's mind. The client had gone completely haywire, diverting from his written requests and Midoriya's predictions entirely. While Midoriya considered himself adaptable, the brutality of his treatment was still considerably harder to handle when he hadn't been expecting it and was utterly defenseless. No matter how hard he resisted, he couldn't stop remembering every burning touch on his skin, as if each finger had been a cattle brand cauterizing tissue and leaving near-physical evidence of defilement.

As soon as the lock on his room hissed back into place, Midoriya ripped off the black leather girdle with the urgency of a dog scratching at the door to take a shit. Welcome darkness shrouded his dirtied figure from all directions, and Midoriya no sooner collapsed onto the poor excuse for bedding in the corner.

Sprawled out on his threadbare mat, Midoriya allowed his hands to prowl the space around him in search of a permanent marker. The hunt involved much careful circumvention of used hypodermic needles and hastily discarded vials of cheap, nameless shit that offered quick highs, his fingers not particularly invested in the end goal — the marker — but not seeking an accidental prick or two, either. Upon discovering the desired item, he uncapped it with one hand and rolled over (with great difficulty) to face the drywall directly adjacent to his body. 2 a.m. was an inkwell of night, brimming and dripping with liquid darkness during the first new moon of the year. The stars didn't make for particularly good companions either, as they eagerly evaded Midoriya's view through the bars of his window, reminding him of the red-light district's light pollution that bled into all of its surroundings.

He returned to the wall, feeling around for a dry spot that would allow the alcohol-based ink to stick. There was probably already writing over the patch he settled on, but Midoriya didn't care. That distant, detached part of him that compartmentalized away any semblance of emotion was bubbling to the surface like boiling water in a frozen lake, and every new ache in his bones was another crack in the ice. Each rising bubble threatened to escape from the trench below the lake and scald Midoriya. His entire being was shivering, quaking, screaming to expel the thoughts and impurities that had stained his being before they could ever truly touch him. He was growing desperate to rid himself of all feeling, or else it would bury him alive before he knew it. Midoriya sought safety. He was becoming impatient.

Besides, the room was so pitch-black he wouldn't be able to make out any words, and he would never look back on whatever he had written regardless.

Emotion was a flame drawn to the skin, and only by writing could Midoriya bring his arm away. And he had to protect himself at all costs. Emotion was unfamiliar, an alien sensation he didn't know what to do with. Emotion was danger. Apathy was safety.

So Midoriya drew the marker to the wall and wrote. He wrote and wrote and wrote everything, everything, everything. Most of it was illegible, and almost none of it was at all coherent. But no matter what, he kept writing. He wrote about what his last client had done to his body and every last feeling stored in the corner of his heart and anything, everything in between. He didn't even know what he was writing; all he knew was the sensation of purging. He discarded everything, from his hopes and dreams to his anguish and pains, before he could get a closer look at any single thought — that was far too dangerous. Along with what he set aside, Midoriya lost himself as his hand flew across the drywall. Midoriya wrote until his hand stopped shaking so violently, until breath reluctantly crept back into his lungs, until he returned to the peaceful static silence known as apathy.

Writing took effort, but shooting up so soon before his next shift would interfere with his ability to observe his clients, and none of them were interested in a plaything with railroad tracks etched into its skin. Writing didn't interfere with his job. More importantly, writing led to apathy led to safety. Midoriya was once again a porcelain doll, ready to be marked by the needs of lonely men from high places, while cold to the touch. He was the doll, doing nothing more than going through the motions of being a human. He was anything and everything except a living thing that breathed and ate and slept and felt any those things. Midoriya avoided directly feeling anything, and that included pain. Apathy was safety. Apathy was safety. Apathy was safety.

It was time to prepare for the last client of the night. Midoriya dropped the marker into some abyss of darkness occupying his floor, not bothering to find the cap. Writing forgotten, he lifted himself up off the mat and crawled a few paces towards the slot on his door, careful to navigate the dangerous mess that was the floor. The disarray had existed for so long that he easily felt his way around without needing light. Midoriya easily made it to the door. The paper, as expected, had been crumpled into the opening with the same amount of delicacy that the idiomatic bull lent the china closet. Sitting up with a short sigh and twinges of biting pain to his backside, Midoriya uncrumpled and scanned the few words scrawled on the piece of paper using the faint neon light from the outside hallway.

3-4:30 no. 39

alias: decay

preferred nickname: master

kinks/fetishes/preferences: slave master roleplay, toys bondage (will supply own)

requests: come wearing my muzzle. and be ready for serious punishment.

Midoriya sighed once more. Concise as usual. He crumpled the paper dismissively and tossed its remains into the far corner, where it joined its fellow client information slips.

Muttering under his breath, Midoriya repeated everything he read on the slip.

What did Decay want this time? His muzzle worn? A rusty tap was attached — if one would use that word to describe such a tenuous relationship — to the wall opposite his mat, although the room was so small that he could reach over and turn the knob from his current position at the door slot. Midoriya gripped the tap and turned it to its maximum capacity, knowing that it would at best yield a glacial trickle of ice-cold water. Underneath the tap was a dense, mismatched pile of various sex toys and clothes, things his clients liked him to wear or bring with him to their sessions. Some of that shit was practically archaic; Midoriya doubted any of his clients knew he owned it. Sweeping past items that nearly evoked nostalgia, he dug through the pile as if he were a dog searching for its long-lost bone, until finally he stumbled upon Decay's favorite muzzle. All black wire, with black leather straps and a dull metal buckle at the back. Midoriya scrubbed at it under the slow stream of water, right under the mouth of the tap, until he felt it was as clean as it would get (admittedly, not very).

Satisfied, he buckled it behind his head, tight — digging into his freckled skin, as Decay liked it — and returned to the pile for its accompanying collar. While not explicitly mentioned, Midoriya knew Decay expected that collar to be on before their sessions. He was indifferent (he was indifferent, he was indifferent, he was indifferent, he was indifferent) to the choking, drowning sensation that the collar offered and his inability to open his mouth beyond a slight gap to breathe. Midoriya quickly ran his hands under the cold tap, splashing his face with water to slough off the last session's tiredness as if it were a thick coat on the surface of his skin.

He wore nothing else. Decay didn't like foreplay; he dove straight into what he wanted.

Midoriya took a deep breath and mustered the strength to stand up. He tapped the back of his hand against the hollow metal door once, twice, feeling each scratch and imperfection with disdain. They continued to lock him up in this confining cell for no reason. Everyone knew he would never leave the brothel.

The door opened by automation, exposing him to the bright lighting of the hallway. No — it wasn't bright; Midoriya's eyes simply hadn't adjusted. He was soon accustomed to the neon signs that littered the water-stained eggshell white walls, each indicating whether one of his… coworkers was available at that time. Another set of the same signs would be glaring loudly in the lobby above the basement level, practically shouting at the clients who were waiting there. His light flickered his professional name in a mint green hue, which was quickly drowned out by several larger signs suddenly turning back on, exploding in pinks and purples and blues. Yet another reminder that three a.m. was rolling around quickly and the next sessions were to begin. Not that he had any strong feelings regarding this fact.

Midoriya pressed the button marked with a faded up arrow and waited for the familiar grinding halt of the elevator to the second basement level. Once the rusty squeals had ceased and the doors opened, he stepped inside and found the 2 button, right at his fingertips as always. The elevator was practically senile with old age — it was the one thing the brothel refused to replace and update, for some reason beyond Midoriya. It creaked up, as if barely able to handle Midoriya's weight, and it wheezed out some swanky jazz music. This gave Midoriya time. Time to think, perhaps.

They all told him he should feel blessed. They said the House was the best brothel in the district, that it had the richest clients with the best payoffs and an actual schedule for their hookers. They said he was lucky to have such a long queue of straight men after him and his service, that not everyone made it so big. For a time, he believed them. After five years in the business, their words were wasted on him. It wasn't like they let him keep any of the money anyways. Why would they, when he was the brothel's biggest cash cow? They were going to grab those teats and rip out as much profit as they could, until Midoriya unavoidably became useless and ultimately disposable. He knew this, every time he left his room in search of his next source of money. He knew this, but he never once left the brothel.

That was as close to reminiscing as he was going to get. Midoriya exited the elevator and walked briskly to the backdoor of room 39, having long lost the need for modesty. He arrived and opened the door up to a small room with a rosy ambiance. He noted the soundproof insulation that filled the building's walls and the heavy curtains blacking out the windows, lending to the illusion of privacy. The velvety wall to his left was lined from top to bottom with more toys, and the pink wall to his right was strewn with fairy lights. How romantic. A large, round mattress decked with messy but clean sheets and huge downy pillows sat imposingly in the middle of the room, and Midoriya wasted no time in closing the door behind him and crawling under the covers. The small digital clock above the room's main door flashed 2:57 in boxy red digits; Midoriya was right on time.

Considering the nature of tonight's requests and their previous sessions together, Midoriya strung together his persona for his time with Decay. The mask was on.

During these next ninety minutes, Midoriya disentangled himself from his professional persona, distancing himself from any feeling whatsoever. This persona would compartmentalize all sensations and give the client what they wanted, based on Midoriya's observations.

No one knew Midoriya Izuku. Instead, everyone whispered the name —

"Deku."

The door creaked open and a spectre of a man slid in, quickly shutting it behind him. Midoriya's eyes followed his mannerisms, cataloguing them and comparing them. Decay looked as if he had trekked through a desert and had his entire existence sucked dry, from his cracked skin to his hunched posture. His red, bloodshot eyes nervously darted around, thirsty for something that most definitely was not water. From the way those eyes stared down his body, Midoriya knew tonight was going to be incredibly easy.

Past observation showed Midoriya that Decay was most certainly the heir to some underground dynasty, probably drug-related. His figure was constantly slumped under the weight of expectation, and he slinked around as if lurking behind the overbearing shadow of a mentor. Plus, that nervous tic with his fingers indicated that he spent more time observing and twiddling his thumbs than taking his own initiative, not with so many people practically breathing down his neck constantly. Those flighty, dilated eyes could likely also be attributed to some sort of substance abuse, although Midoriya had never analyzed far enough to determine exactly what substance that was. All that mattered was that Decay felt trapped and was looking for a quick fix. Midoriya — no, Deku — just had to play along.

Smirking, Deku purred, "Welcome back, master."

Decay scratched greedily at his own skin and swung his beat-up, unzipped duffel bag onto the bed. Deku widened his Cheshire-like grin at the goodies inside: heaps of toys that Decay personally liked to use during their sessions, just for him. He held out his thin wrists, providing Decay leeway to attach steel handcuffs and pin his arms above his head on the bed. Just as usual.

Midoriya felt nothing as Decay wheezed hot words down his neck, brushing scabbed lips against his exposed skin and demarcating his position with manic kiss marks. Deku gasped eagerly, writhing under his tight grip in a hungry rapture. He tilted his head in an act of inviting Decay to nibble the skin around each freckle on his collarbone, apologizing breathily for allowing his previous client to leave marks as well. He supposed it was similar to how wolves pissed along territorial borders, howling, "It's mine!"

Midoriya felt nothing as Decay buried his knee between his legs and his face in his wild green locks, unzipping his pants with one hand. He gave no response when Decay moved to stroke the scarred pattern on his left shoulder blade, even though that one place was supposed to be off limits. Deku purposefully restrained a moan from escaping his lips, as if in fear of angering his master.

Midoriya felt nothing as Decay ordered him to keep his body vulnerable so that he could run his dry, sandpapery hands across his skin. Decay turned to his duffel bag, pulling out a tight black harness with at least a thousand straps and a leash. Deku made subtle, needy movements and fluttered his eyes as Decay put them on his body, allowing them to grip his lithe frame. Decay loved to feel in control.

Midoriya felt nothing as Decay suddenly tugged on the leash, robbing him of air, as well as when he jerked him by the wire muzzle and drew him closer. Deku uttered endless "Master"s and "I need you"s with his shallow breaths, waiting for the twisted grin that inevitably stretched across Decay's face.

Midoriya felt nothing as Decay had his way with his body, as many times and however he wanted it. Deku responded to every movement, every flit in Decay's distorted features. He calculated and analyzed and adjusted as much as he needed to get Decay off, biding his time until 4:30 beeped on the clock. Decay's preferences were all too familiar to Deku, and he knew how to configure their bodies together as he had done so many times before. All he had to do was answer him at the right times with sweet nothings and a twitch or two; Deku knew Decay hated being touched, so he otherwise sat back and let Decay do what he wanted. Do nothing, feel nothing. Be the doll. Easy, as always.

Midoriya felt nothing.

And yet, he couldn't deny that there was something different in the air tonight, and 4:30 felt so far away.

— — —

Todoroki Shouto celebrated his twenty-first birthday at his desk in his father's police station.

No song, no cake, no gifts. No friends to join in the absolutely thrilling festivities.

Same as always.

This birthday also happened to mark Todoroki's one-year anniversary of speeding through the Academy and becoming a rookie officer for the city, only to be stationed under the suffocating supervision of his father, Chief Todoroki Enji. It had been one year of shitty work and even shittier luck when it came to being assigned to a case (in other words, not at all). One year of lost opportunities and the growing desire to escape the status quo. Todoroki had long been searching for the chance to prove himself and uproot the disdainful expectations of his seniors; that would be the first step to surpassing his father and being a better police chief than he ever would be. Even if his people skills were a bit… lacking, he figured he would be able to make up for that in other areas. But he needed that big break first. For now, it was busywork and more busywork. And some really dirty looks from people he called colleagues.

Life seemed to really enjoy handing Todoroki the middle finger on a silver platter.

Todoroki's desk was a topographical wonder of recklessly organized administrative forms — sent by his father — strewn on top of manila folders covering cold cases, sticky notes and scrawled memos, coffee orders, and otherwise fossilized papers from ages past. Several mugs of long-cold green tea teetered precariously at the peak of the sloping mess, creating rings of discolored condensation that would stain whatever forgotten sheets had been underneath. Caffeine pills lay scattered everywhere.

Even Todoroki didn't know his way through the chaos half the time, but there was no helping it. No one in the department had any problems with overworking the rookie (the aloof, disrespectful, son of the chief rookie) to his untimely, stress-induced end. If higher-ups kept dropping their unwanted tasks on his cluttered table, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and work. There was no schedule, no four-way organization matrix (no matter how much Iida demanded he adopt one). It was just working your ass off until you were done. If he was going to leave before daybreak, much less rival his father without using his privilege, Todoroki needed to get this shit done, no complaints.

No complaints, but maybe a short break was in order. He had been storing pent-up restless energy in his limbs for who knows how long, and he had been impatiently fidgeting with the nearly-dry pen in his hand. Upon further inspection, his body was clearly rebelling against his ability to focus on all fronts. Todoroki's back ached in at least seven different places from his posture, his eyes burned, and his wrist was trembling ever so slightly from busily writing nonstop for several hours. He leaned back in his rickety swivel chair, the one that had a hole in the seat fabric that exposed the spongy yellow foam underneath. A headache was forming in his temples, pulsating painfully. Todoroki had been staring at the same damn words over and over again, and he had made no progress on proofreading the report before it was to be scanned and archived. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, he dimmed the lamp resting precariously at the edge of his desk and spared a look around.

Nobody.

The building was dark, window blinds shut and desks abandoned, save for his. As expected, Todoroki was to be the first in the building and the last to leave. The isolation felt no different than if the department were packed to the brim with officers; no one bothered to expend more than a few dismissive words on Todoroki at any time of the day.

The boxy, cramped space became claustrophobic, Todoroki reminded of his father with a glance in any direction. The poorly-hinged door to the police chief's office, the accolades clinging to the walls like lichen on a tree, the pictures of the senior officers leering at Todoroki maliciously from a nearby desk and oh god the walls were closing in. Namely, those photos shoved in his face the fact that he had no connections within the police force, besides the omniscient eye of his father, which monitored — and found fault with — his every decision. A sense of inescapability threatened to approach the forefront of his thoughts, strangling him under the oppressive atmosphere. Air as heavy as lead rushed into his chest and eyes, weighing him down until he sank deeper and deeper into some bottomless pit, a cursed creature to Tartarus.

His wrist, as if on cue, began itching and burning profusely underneath his wide gold cuff, the sensation sending throbbing ripples up his arm and forcing him to ball his hands up into fists. It was the shittiest version of nostalgia catapulting him back to his high school days, and it was a signal of defeat to him. He resisted the urge to scratch at it, instead focusing his attention on calming his racing heart and unclenching his fists. Breathe, breathe, breathe. He's not here right now. Just finish the shit in front of you and get the hell out of here. Todoroki ran a passing finger over the crescent-like indentations sculpted into his palm as they slowly faded, coming to mirror the new moon that he knew silently occupied the night sky. He didn't need an open window to recall the daily weather report.

Several minutes passed by and Todoroki no longer heard his blood rushing in his ears. He tentatively examined his heart rate, which was relatively back to normal. A little bit high, but that was probably just the usual late-night stress making itself known. Todoroki let his hand fall back to his side and breathed a sigh of relief and slight exasperation.

Those dumpster-fire heaps of work could wait, Todoroki figured. His eyes peered at the round clock high on the opposite wall, his heart in his throat with a mixture of hope and fear. 3:34 am. January 11th.

He let out a long, heavy breath. Pretty damn late, as he expected but certainly hadn't hoped for, especially on his… special day.

Todoroki riffled through his desk drawers, sweeping aside miscellaneous notes and utensils of all shapes and sizes. Upon digging out the half-empty bottle of painkillers, he popped two in his mouth and swallowed them without water. Kirishima, one of the few friendly enough to ever approach Todoroki, would probably call him a true man for doing something so "daring" and "manly", but the only thing on his mind was getting rid of such an untimely headache. It was distracting him from completing a seemingly insurmountable mess of work, and for some reason he was itching to get it done more so than normal.

Almost indetectable, an indescribable feeling was thrumming in his blood, telling him that something big was on the horizon. Something he truly couldn't miss out on this time. That, or his body was sending him its last warnings of total shutdown due to a caffeine overdose and prolonged sleep deprivation. Either way, Todoroki knew that change was sorely due for his current career trajectory.

With unspoken expectations and a subsided headache, Todoroki brought fresh attention to the report that had been sitting in front of him. If he worked fast enough, he could get through all his busywork and lock up before sunrise, giving him the opportunity to catch a couple hours of shut-eye before coming back. Some caffeine and tea would have to do in the stead of adequate sleep. He adjusted his gold cuff with a tight grip, blew his bangs out of his eyes, and got to work.

There was no time for birthdays when you were Todoroki Shouto.

— — —

Todoroki was woken up at his desk by a stern Iida gesticulating almost robotically.

He had fallen asleep around 4:30 while hunched over a particularly grueling eyewitness testimony that was associated with some local assault. The font was so small for no good reason, and Todoroki recalled leaning so close to the paper that his nose bumped into the tiny script at several points throughout the evening. At least he had knocked out all of the other assignments that rested disdainfully on his desk before he inevitably succumbed to the sweet, sweet poison that was a good night's rest.

"Todoroki-kun! Why didn't you lock up last night! Someone could've broken into the station and generated major liabilities for the regional department as a whole! Moreover, such an egregious display of irresponsibility defies our moral aptitude as police officers to demonstrate our care for security, routine, and the entire eighteen-point police code first introduced by your very own family! You really must set a better example for the community in the future!" Iida reprimanded him firmly, continuing to gesture aggressively in the fashion of a teacher or professor that also happened to be a robot.

Iida's frustrated lecture flew past Todoroki's head without a second to spare. He was used to Iida's strict adherence to… professionalism. Todoroki was more than used to these flashy displays that his senior officer put on, but just as he was about to respond, something lodged itself into his throat, a huge knot of something that forced his mouth shut and made him incapable of more than a few words at a time. It was a giant fuck you snowballing down the face of a cliff, becoming inescapably large with every second and hurtling right towards Todoroki every time he needed to say something with urgency.

"... Sorry. I won't do it again," Todoroki forced out. The words left his mouth much more aggressively than he intended, and it made him sound like an annoyed teenager stopped by his teacher after class. Maybe not the best response to a superior, even if Iida was the same age.

He pressed the pads of his fingers against his sleep-puffy eyes and studied the clock. 6:01 am. An hour and a half wasn't so bad. Looking around, about half of the officers were in already, and the next half were to filter in during the next forty-five minutes.

Iida sighed and set his Voltron-like arms to his sides stiffly. "Todoroki-kun, you're really pushing it. The chief has something 'special' he was promising us today, and who knows? Today might be your lucky day."

For all of Iida's excessive outbursts of loyalty to the modern-day equivalent of the bushido code, he was surprisingly understanding towards Todoroki's familial situation. Much of the station had borne witness to the tense atmosphere that could shit on anyone's day once both Todorokis were in the same room; however, Iida was one of the few who didn't immediately look distastefully at the younger Todoroki and dismiss him as just another legacy who was riding on his father's coattails. The same went for Kirishima and Yaoyorozu, although it was hard to get particularly close to any of them at the station when they were sailors busy getting field experience at sea while he was stuck at the dock of the station, anchored firmly to that beloved paperwork.

And did Iida mention something new today? Come to think of it, Todoroki did remember hearing the whispers of a big case that only his dad and Deputy Chief Hawks knew the complete details of, but he was too engulfed in his long-term assignment that he never bothered to dig around any further. Was that really getting introduced today?

Todoroki turned back to his desk and ignored the niggling sensation in his gut that had first made itself known last night. "I'll… keep my eyes open."

No sooner than when he swiveled back to the microscopic text of the testimony, however, he startled at a sudden hand on his shoulder. Not a grab, necessarily, but more so something resembling a karate-chop in typical Iida fashion.

"I'm encouraging you, Todoroki-kun. I truly believe you will encounter some unimaginably great opportunities in the future, and I'm feeling good about the briefing today," Iida said. His glasses glinted under the fluorescent lighting as he shifted his arm, making a normally uncomfortable action seem totally socially acceptable. No one else at the station would be able to draw up something so embarassingly cheesy, but today those words were exactly what Todoroki needed.

With the tiniest of smiles, Todoroki replied, "Thanks… But I need to finish this."

Inwardly, he cringed. He had meant to say, "Thanks, Iida-san. But I need to finish reading this testimony first, and then maybe we can talk some more later." Suddenly, those words sounded incredibly mocking every time Todoroki sounded them out in his head, one syllable at a time.

Iida shook his head and began walking to his own desk. "Seriously, how much work are they going to give the man before they let him do something?" Todoroki couldn't have agreed more, even if he didn't have the balls to say anything out loud.

Iida turned around one more time, glancing at Todoroki over his broad shoulder. With a polished smile, Iida exclaimed, "Oh, and Todoroki-kun — happy birthday!"

Todoroki nodded back briskly and hoped that constituted enough of a thank you. He was surprised anyone even remembered his birthday. Todoroki himself was on the verge of forgetting the occasion entirely, as it seemed the station was going to be particularly busy on that day. Nonetheless, it was a small joy that Todoroki was more than grateful for. Unfortunately, such small joys could only distract from reality for so long, and Todoroki let out a quiet exhale upon revisiting the testimony that was practically burning a hole in his creaky desk.

Todoroki planned to complete this last assignment before taking some caffeine pills and brushing his teeth in the bathroom, where many fellow toothbrushes stood proudly as symbols of long nights dedicated to enforcing justice and complying with bureaucratic red tape. His right hand fidgeted absentmindedly with his cuff and scanned through the witness' words.

There was blood. Blood and drugs everywhere.

Probably exaggerated just by virtue of being an eyewitness testimony, but Todoroki kept reading.

He said… he kept saying that he needed to take her, to take my friend. She was unconscious and I hoped she was still breathing, after he beat her over the head. Oh god, we just wanted to have fun!

After some incoherent babbling, Todoroki found where the girl continued.

Thank god the cops showed up in time. I didn't know what to do when he kept making circles with his fingers and tying her up. And then… he started approaching me too. He said, "the more, the better."

This testimony was somewhat alarming. Wasn't this supposed to be a minor case in some suburban enclave? Sure, the criminal had been locked away no less than a month ago, but this seemed to be tied to other crimes Todoroki had studied while organizing and revising and archiving. Curious, he perused the file summary.

Perpetrator is a 32-year-old male, short and lean, with bleached blonde hair and black eyes. Clear signs of drug abuse and physical abuse, not self-inflicted. Motive unknown, continues to insist on taking victim and draws circles with free hands.

Victim was branded with circle on outer thigh. Several contusions caused by blunt-force object and abrasions on wrists/ankles due to thick ropes used as restraints. Head trauma also caused by blunt-force object, although no permanent damage.

Large metal bat and circle-shaped cattle iron located at crime scene; most probable weapons of assault.

Addendum: as of December 23rd, 20XX, perpetrator has committed suicide by hanging while in cell. Left note, which lists seven circles in a row and several lines down, "he's coming". More circles were found scratched into the corners of the cell.

Todoroki read and re-read the addendum to the summary, each time with more apprehension. This sounded much too familiar. It sounded too familiar, and yet Todoroki's brain was too fried with exhaustion to reel in distant memories of old case files. He scowled and forcibly turned the cuff around his arm in frustration, his frown carving a deep ravine of negativity into his features. Circles, huh?

He was yanked out of his apparent fixation when Kirishima popped up in front of him, sending his heart rate soaring. Those carefully-arranged red spikes nearly poked his eye out, and those from those spikes emerged a rumbly, spirited voice. "Yo, Todoroki! How's the manliest rookie in the station doing on his birthday?"

Again, that big lump in his throat. "...Fine."

He felt his chair being swiveled to the left until his eyes met with the scarlet pair that belonged to none other than Kirishima. At that moment, those eyes were more confused than anything else.

"Just fine? That's surprising, I thought you'd give me some emo shit like, 'Kirishima-san, my pet hamster just died and my dad was the one to run him over. Then my dad took away my badge as his birthday gift to me.' Good thing that's not the case!" Kirishima broke into raucous laughter, as if he just told the world's funniest joke. Todoroki didn't think it was that funny.

"Anyways, Yaomomo over here —" he tilted his head back to gesture at Yaoyorozu, whose almond eyes nervously peeked out behind Kirishima's shoulder, "made you a birthday present, and I signed my name on the card too. Good thing she's good with crafts, so I can leech off her any time! Yaomomo, give him the gift!"

Yaoyorozu shyly nodded to Todoroki and pulled out a small box from behind her back. "Todoroki-san, this is for you. It's not much, but Kirishima-san and I hope you like it."

Kirishima quickly added, "If you don't like it, don't even worry! Your pops prepared something even better today!" That "something" had to have a wink and a thumbs up, didn't it?

Todoroki eyed the delicate box. It was about the size of his palm, wrapped in robin's-egg blue paper with translucent white-and-silver ribbon. A small bow, in the same ribbon, adorned the top. It really was such a pretty box, Todoroki felt ashamed that he would have to tear it apart to see its contents. On his face, however, was nothing but an impassive, unconcerned look that betrayed nothing that he was really feeling. What a shame, since it seemed that Yaoyorozu put a lot of thought and time into such a gift.

After some hesitation, Todoroki made a clean cut at an angle from the edge, careful to preserve as much of the paper and ribbon as possible. Yaoyorozu looked like she was either about to shit her pants or fall over from anxiety, and Kirishima was impatiently tapping his foot with increasing annoyance. It would've been amusing in to any other individual, but Todoroki felt exactly like Yaoyorozu as he was meticulously peeling away the paper.

"Ah, all right! I'll open it for you, you slow ass!" he shouted, yanking the box from Todoroki's hands and utterly trashing the fragile wrapping, now confetti on Todoroki's lap. When he was done, Kirishima proudly returned the box to a bewildered Todoroki. "Much better!"

Todoroki looked at Kirishima, then at the box. He opened the box, finding a small card and a silver-chrome cuff. It reflected every surface within arm's reach, even Todoroki's mismatched eyes. It was incredibly beautiful. And probably really expensive. With dread, he swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"How much did this cost?"

Yaoyorozu looped her hair around her index finger, avoiding eye contact. "A relative in my family owns a jewelry company, so I got it for free. Don't worry, I removed the price tag on the box so don't bother looking."

Todoroki stared at her in disbelief. Rich girls. "Thanks, but I can't take this. It's too expensive."

Kirishima and Yaoyorozu spoke almost in unison. "No!" They then gawked at each other, and then Yaoyorozu gestured at Kirishima to speak first.

Taking up the invitation, Kirishima spoke seriously. His open stance suddenly looked much more sympathetic, and the same sentiment could be seen in the expression he wore. "Bro, you've had a shit year. Iida, Yaomomo, and I have seen it. And we're the only 'allies' that you have at the Shibuya ward station. We can't even do that much for you — I mean, look at how much work you do every damn day, and your fucking eye bags, dude — but we can help you celebrate your birthday. So please, just take the goddamn gift. Also, it was free."

Todoroki's heart pounded with gratitude. This was probably more than enough, and it was definitely more than what he deserved.

Yaoyorozu nodded profusely, continuing, "Not to mention, this cuff is a much more sound match for your appearance, given your complexion and hair as key factors. And I helped imprint the words on the inside!" Now that was something she was confident in.

Todoroki decided it couldn't hurt to acquiesce to his coworkers for once. Of course, however, he still delicately handled the cuff that was probably worth more than him. Despite feeling quite sturdy, he couldn't help but wince at the thought of cracking it or damaging the latch before having ever worn it. On the inside, two words and an icon were etched in a dainty, simple style:

look up!

He did just that, to the sight of both Kirishima and Yaoyorozu smiling.

No longer wearing that sympathetic expression, Kirishima gave him another comically large thumbs up. "You need to stop looking at your damn paperwork so much, bro! Look up some more! You could always look at the clock or the windows to realize you're always here way too late, or you could look up to opportunities that will come! You're twenty-one, which also means you're legally allowed to drink in the U.S.! Not that that's important… Anyways, happy birthday, bro!"

Yaoyorozu murmured with agreement, her eyes glowing and swirling like liquid obsidian. "Are you going to try it on?"

Todoroki was about to nod, but he realized that trying the silver cuff on meant taking his gold cuff off. Wonderfully awful waves of panic lapped at his feet and he clutched his gold cuff defensively, reminiscent of pulling up one's pant legs to avoid getting them wet by incoming tides. "Uh… sorry. I'll try it tonight."

Yaoyorozu looked slightly disappointed, but she quickly regained her quiet energy and acknowledged Todoroki with a small nod.

Kirishima furthered, "Anyways, dude, like I mentioned before, your best gift is coming up in…" he checked the time, "five minutes!"

With a small wave, Yaoyorozu murmured, "Meet us in the briefing room!"

Then the both of his superiors were off to the coffee machine, words flying over whether or not Todoroki appreciated the gift before he had the chance to say thank you. He'd always thought they were a conspicuously unusual pair, being near-complete opposites in terms of demeanor save for their wholesome attitudes, he supposed.

Todoroki looked at the clock and suddenly his stomach was sinking into his pelvic floor, bulldozing through his other vital organs. It was five til seven? And he was being told to show up at the briefing room in five minutes? Suppressing his anxieties surrounding the testimony and the associated case, he stuffed the cuff back into the box and subsequently the box into the side compartment of his backpack.

Mirroring the living nightmare known as his desk, Todoroki's backpack was an equally frightening disaster scene. Hurricane Shouto was a Category Five, rampaging through every compartment and dislodging every possible object and relocating those objects into sedimentary layers of importance. In the aftermath, Todoroki was only able to nab the key essentials off that fresh layer of use: breath strips (he was nearly out — when did he last brush his teeth?), a half-empty water bottle, and a grimy black pen slick with something akin to Chemical X.

He ran his free hand through his bed hair to smooth it down reasonably, back into red and white as opposed to a splotchy pink mess that invariably resulted from falling asleep on crime records. Todoroki downed the last of the water (somehow stale) and slapped a breath strip on his tongue in record time. Shit, shit, shit! He fumbled for the pen, wiping it off on his three-day-old white shirt and slapping on his uniform. Inside the pocket was some carefully folded but otherwise unused legal paper, which he supposed would have to do. Did past Todoroki think a situation like this was going to happen?

But there was no time to ponder the ramifications of such potential forward thinking by his past self, because his tired ass was to get to the briefing room, stat. Was it… no, he didn't want to jinx it. This may have been a childish way to go about it, but Todoroki could hear only the blood pumping in his ears like a canyon being carved and he was not going to blow his chances because he was too ambitious in his thoughts. He had to get all his bases covered. He felt his badge in his front pocket, and looked at the clock once more. 6:58.

Alright, he had two minutes to climb about two stories. His training at the Academy was not going to fail him now. Todoroki bursted through the heavy stairway doors and traversed the steps three at a time. No time to fidget with his cuff, even though he was absolutely itching to touch it. Out of breath, Todoroki managed to slip into the briefing room just before the loudspeakers hissed, "Briefing begins now."

Deputy Chief Hawks latched the door shut behind Todoroki, but not without a "Kid. Don't be late next time." Hawks then made his way to join the side of… Chief Todoroki, senior.

Todoroki looked around awkwardly, scanning for a potential seat or corner of the room to blend into. Luckily, an empty chair seemingly materialized as he searched, and he quickly stationed himself there. Never mind that it was next to an industrial-size trash can, Todoroki just wanted to disappear from the eyes that were penetrating straight into his core. Not just from his father — from every other officer in the cramped room. Todoroki pressed his back into the olive-green drywall (who made the design choices?) and hunched himself over his slightly-crumpled paper and grimy pen. His heart finally had a chance to settle down uncomfortably in his ribcage, an improvement from climbing his throat moments ago.

With a disdainful grunt, the Chief began Todoroki Shouto's first briefing in precisely 365 days of becoming a police officer.

"January 11th. Today, some of the lucky maggots in this room are gonna face a huge operation that the Shibuya ward station ain't never seen the likes of before. Shigaraki Tomura, better known as the drug lord Decay, has been reported making his appearance quite frequently at the infamous House of Cards brothel in Kabukicho. Probably fucking like a rabbit." Chief Todoroki sneered coldly.

"Before one of you chooses to act out in insubordination and ask why we're getting involved, remember that Decay is tied to a huge drug cartel called the League. If you worms are unaware by now, the League has been raising hell all over the major wards of Tokyo. I don't even want to list all the shit storms they've created for us just this year. Not to mention, the League is giving a shit ton of puny gangs and wannabe syndicates the idea that they can be just like their seniors and create trouble for us.

"Regardless, our shrimpy-ass Shinjuku station neighbors who were supposed to handle the situation decided that they needed reinforcements, so the central authority of Tokyo is making us haul ass to the ward over and help them." Todoroki nearly flinched physically at the look in his father's eyes. Everyone, everyone knew of his (one-sided) rivalry with Shinjuku Chief Toshinori Yagi. The pure hatred in those blue eyes froze Todoroki's blood. Too bad he inherited one of those eyes.

"Decay is supposedly inheriting his daddy's operation, now that the original is getting too old to run the underworld by himself. Shinjuku whipped up the grand notion that if we capture the little shit, we rip the head straight from the cartel's body. Plus, we get to extract information. There's a lot we still don't know, but the other stations across Tokyo are too damn old to get their acts together and do their jobs. We're flying nearly blind.

"Unfortunately, you zygotes are still coming with me, if it's the last thing you do. Shibuya does its fucking job.

"So here's the plan. We've signed up five officers for sessions at the House tonight under fake aliases. Midnight to one thirty. Tonight's empty as hell, only ten of their hookers are working. But you have no idea how hard it was to get these fucking slots. Shinjuku had to queue up about a month ago, and only now are we getting the green light for the plan. Had to keep this under wraps until now, for obvious reasons. This plan works tonight, and tonight only.

"I'm taking the fresh meat out for this one, which is a huge fucking risk, I know. But someone here needs to learn the ropes, and bringing some decrepit-looking middle-aged dad ain't gonna cut it at the House. The five are going to be myself, Kirishima, Yaoyorozu, Iida, and… Shouto." All eyes in the room turned right back to Todoroki, abyssal in nature and endless in number. He wished the wall could suck him in and never return him to the outside world.

"Everyone else here is back-up, in case Decay comes prepared. Shinjuku's bringing in snipers — their only half-competent force — and we're joining them on the ground. All underground tunnels are being secured by 2 p.m. and we get ourselves settled in at 10 p.m. Back-up better get ready for the best feature film of their fucking lives, cause this is gonna be one hell of a chase.

"As for the undercovers, we've nabbed a digital floor plan that y'all will need to memorize by heart by the time lunch rolls around. Iida and Shouto are on the second floor and Kirishima and Yaoyorozu are on the third floor. I'm on the first floor, by the elevator. Decay is returning for the second night in a row on the second floor, in room 39. Same hooker as last night. Seems like that one's his favorite. It's gonna be Iida and Shouto's job to pin down Decay when he's busy getting laid, and the other undercovers will cover his escape routes, in the scenario that one of you decides to fuck it up for the rest of us. Those are on the floor plan."

Chief Todoroki donned a twisted grin. "Maggots, get ready for the night of your life."

Hawks stepped in to end the meeting. Todoroki's father was clearly too engulfed in his psychotic fantasies to properly do that himself. "The rest of the details are on the files sent to your computers. Everyone dismissed," he ushered with a clap of his hands.

Todoroki released the pent-up nerves twisting and bumbling around in his gut, finally escaping the olive-green cage with a gasp of relief followed by more anxiety. His first operation was going to be in Kabukicho? The Kabukicho? The red-light district in Shinjuku was nothing to scoff at, and no place in Shibuya held a candle to its utter shadiness. This was something big, alright, but it wasn't anything good. At least it was one hell of a birthday present.

— — —

Before he knew it or had time to prepare, Todoroki was faced with the imminent toll of the clock at midnight. He recited everything he was told in his head.

Don't blow your cover to the hooker unless absolutely necesary. They'll probably notify the "man upstairs" and the entire op will go to shit.

Dress like a sleaze. It means you have money to trash on drugs and sex. Rub some Cheeto dust on yourself if you want.

Keep your gun hidden. Same problem as blowing your cover.

Don't kill Decay once you have him. Let Iida handle the important shit. You're there as support.

12:30. That's when you and Iida meet up at room 39. Tell your hooker you got cold feet or something.

12:30. Only half an hour to brace himself for the shit show to come. Todoroki's heart seemed eager to escape its healthy place in his chest, and he could quite literally feel it pounding on his ribcase, begging for release. His palms were clammy as hell, despite wiping them desperately against his joggers (and brushing alarmingly close to his gun in its concealed holster). Todoroki wasn't sure if he would manage pointing his gun at Decay, no matter how perfect his shooting scores at the Academy were. He still felt chained, tethered to the eyes pointing at him from every direction, dragging him down with the weight of a thousand stairs. He would do anything to escape the needles crawling, prying right under the surface of his skin.

They all entered separately, in randomly-timed intervals. Todoroki was the least important to the plan, and thus the last to enter. LED lights had wrapped the entire building, bathing it in elegantly glittering showers of color. The interior was equally refined, with crisp white walls and modern furniture that betrayed nothing of what happened beyond the elevator doors. Equally unnerving was the fact that no one besides himself occupied the lobby, with all security proceedings commencing by automation. Signing in was a blur of signatures and fake names and contacts and verification that left Todoroki confused and speechless, until he was somehow approved to attend his… session.

Session. The word itself left an acrid aftertaste on his tongue, given how much poison was laced into each letter. It was more than a session. It was someone, dehumanized to a sex commodity, bought and sold with dirty money and destroyed and remolded based on the needs of nameless, faceless men. It was the loneliness in between their perfectly scheduled slots. It was losing every square inch your body and retaining only the privacy of your headspace.

Of course, many made the choice to enter such a field. Todoroki held those people in the same respect as any average salaryman. But sometimes, it wasn't a choice. It was the pressures of life and the need to put food on the table, or it was a mistake that couldn't be rescinded once it was made. He had heard the rumors floating in the biting night air regarding the workers at the House. They were disgusting.

Todoroki glanced at the area above the elevators as he approached the button panel. Dozens of neon lights, names of sex workers, littered the clinically clean wall with an ocean of colors. Most were pink or purple, with only one green light. It was off, but the tint of the curved tubing indicated its color. Before he could get a closer look at the name, however, a robotic voice gently reminded him to press the elevator button and enter.

It was now or never. Todoroki directed his attention to the pristine elevator doors, which reflected his worried, tired face right back. He pressed the button with a shaky hand and stepped inside. Ten floors. Todoroki selected the second floor, gripping his pant leg tightly in his other hand. Holy shit, he felt like he was either going to throw up or shit himself, or worse — both. He was beginning to regret not eating anything for the whole day, but his stomach wouldn't have been able to handle anything he sent down the chute anyways. For such a modern facility, the elevator was really slow. Or Todoroki's perception of time had become distorted beyond recognition. The static sensation under his skin was becoming harder to ignore, and he restlessly adjusted his gold cuff. Maybe it would have been better to wear the new silver cuff from Yaoyorozu and Kirishima, but it was far too late for such clarity of hindsight.

The faint whisper of saxophone riffs ended abruptly with a ding on the second floor. Refusing to look back, Todoroki willed his legs to move forward, despite how earnestly they screamed to leave at all costs. He passed the room inconspicuously labelled with a subtle "39" and he couldn't help but take a sharp breath of air. Everything was going to happen in that room. Nonetheless, Todoroki continued walking and stood at the door to room 45 several yards down. Looking at his watch, there were less than twenty minutes before he and Iida were to meet at the door.

Todoroki could've sworn he'd aged a lifetime in the pitiful ten minutes spent at the House of Cards brothel.

He approached the sleek door, as fearful as if the round latch were a burning stovetop. It was now or never, now or never. Ah, fuck. Since when was it this hard to open doors? The real operation hadn't even started! Todoroki practically ripped open the door, to the bemused bewilderment of the petite woman inside.

"Wow, no one's been this eager to see me since before Deku joined!" she giggled.

Todoroki was not in a giggly mood.

"Not much for words, huh? Don't worry, not all men are up for chit chat when they're in a time crunch," the hooker continued, breaking off into quiet laughter behind her hand. Todoroki wondered why she bothered covering up her smile when she was practically naked. Those articles of lingerie were certainly not leaving much to the imagination, although he had to admit she was quite beautiful.

"... I'm not here for sex." His throat felt uncomfortably tight. It was practically in a death grip.

She cocked her head. "Oh? What are you here for, then? I'm afraid this is nothing more than a brothel, and I'm nothing more than a hooker."

He slowly approached the luxurious plush bed at the center of the room, and he caught a subtle whiff of jasmine in the air. The room was quite pink, from the faintly tinted hanging lanterns to the plush walls covered end to end with… toys.

"I just… want to talk." Not true, but he would rather force open the death-grip on his vocal cords for a few minutes than try and have sex with a stranger.

The hooker's doe-like amber eyes sparkled in the rosy ambiance, contrasting with her porcelain-like complexion. Todoroki noticed that she smiled with her eyes in a way that couldn't have been trained, and it was so alluring that it was probably a huge selling point among clientele. She poked absentmindedly at the ends of her long, coppery hair. "Well, come sit down on this bed! I won't jump on you — that's bad manners, and I'm getting paid either way. You just look so very uncomfortable."

Todoroki obliged wordlessly, and he took a measured seat to avoid disturbing her position at the head of the bed. He also felt that it would be necessary to be able to spring up into action at any moment, should Iida come barging in asking why he had forgotten about the mission or some other impossible mishap. On that thought, Todoroki's agitation returned in full force, compelling him to rub his cuff nervously.

"You come asking to talk, but you're silent. Men are so mysterious," Todoroki heard murmured amusedly behind him. He turned hesitantly.

"I'm… bad at talking. But I really don't need… sex."

There was the small eye-smile again. This woman looked far too innocent to be involved in the sex trade. Simultaneously, her eyes were perfectly enigmatic, and she was suddenly more of a mystery to be solved.

"I'm fine with talking," she replied. "Sometimes I talk too much, or I say too much of the truth. Wait a minute, did I just discover the reason for my sliding popularity?"

That was an alarmingly depressing comment. Todoroki decided to push the conversation, if for another — he glanced at the time — fifteen minutes. "What is it like… here?"

The woman laughed, a soft, clear laugh, and responded. "The clients are loaded. If I'm lucky, I make good money. Isn't that all that matters in this world?"

No, it isn't. Money isn't everything. There's so much more to living, like freedom. Freedom, and… everything that follows. Todoroki gulped. "No."

"Hm? I guess you're right, for some people. For people like me, money is all you have. Money and sex are the only thing that matter when your existence is only known within the map lines of Kabukicho." The woman maintained her easy smile, as if she was very much used to being a doll, or perhaps an actress on the grand stage of life.

Todoroki strained to push out his next question. "Do you… like your work?"

She just peered at him incredulously. "I like money."

He wasn't sure what he expected by asking that question. Unfortunately, being placed suddenly under extreme duress on several occasions in under twenty-four hours was more than somewhat impairing Todoroki's cognitive functions. It didn't help that faint moaning sounds could be heard right next door, accompanied by alarmingly loud, rhythmic thuds against the wall. Todoroki imagined those thuds as the toll of a large grandfather clock, ticking down to 12:30 and — accordingly — his eventual doom as a police officer. Instead of feeling painfully awkward, Todoroki was now twice as nervous than before. He sputtered out yet another inquiry.

"Are you ever going to leave?"

Something about those words must have struck a chord with the woman, because those golden eyes betrayed more emotion than simple amusement. She suddenly looked very small.

The smile quickly tugged at her flushed lips once more, but Todoroki could easily tell the worker was deliberately avoiding his eyes.

"To be completely honest, no. Maybe not ever, not while I'm still useful. And after that…" She trailed off, and Todoroki felt a twinge of sadness from seeing her fragile figure. Sadness, and something else.

There was confusion, from the frustratingly vague nature of her words. And there was disbelief, from the implication that her "usefulness" as a human was only transient. And there was anger, from the realization that something far more sinister could be dominating the House of Cards brothel at the center of the Kabukicho district. Something that was trapping workers like the woman beside him. And after that was pure empathy. This woman was a caged bird, just like him. She had long lost the taste of freedom. She was missing out on so much, and she was trapped by sterile white walls with an ancient elevator that would never let her leave.

Except he could do something to help her. Todoroki clasped his cuff tightly, reassured that the plan would work and after that, he could look into the House of Cards. New purpose found itself at his hands, no longer trembling quite as hard as before.

The hooker quickly redirected the conversation topic when Todoroki had been silent for so long. "A-anyways, tell me about yourself! You know we have to treat our clientele well, even if that doesn't necessarily involve our primary area of interest…"

Todoroki managed to pull through one-sentence answers, and the worker was more than happy to oblige. They talked away about endless nothings and casual small conversation, treading lightly at the slightest potential of sensitive topics. He never pressed for a name. She remained anonymous behind her professional name, which he felt uncomfortable uttering. An unspoken mutual agreement had formed between the two.

12:30 had finally come to Todoroki, whether he liked it or not.

He stood up hurriedly from the bed. "Sorry… I have to… step out."

The woman smiled at him. "You're not coming back, are you?"

The question blindsided Todoroki, who wasn't sure how to answer. He settled on, "I will… just not tonight. Stay here."

Her smile grew wider, and Todoroki observed a perfect row of pearly white teeth.

"Well, get going!"

He awkwardly waved with an unsure grimace, and no sooner turned and ran out of the room. He promised himself, he would be back.

Todoroki closed the door behind him and made eye contact with Iida, who was crouching in front of room 39 and motioning at him to get his gun out of his holster. He did just so, and crept towards the room quickly but silently.

Iida whispered, "You're one minute and seven seconds late! Decay is inside, and I can hear some sacrilegiously indecent noises!"

Todoroki cringed at the thought, immediately reminded of the quality ambient noise from the room over while he was conversing with that worker. He shook off the memory and asked, "What's the plan?"

"On the count of three, I lead and open the door. You follow and keep your gun on Decay. I'll get him pinned down and handcuffed. Back me up in case he gets the upper hand — try to shoot without killing anyone if it comes to it."

Todoroki clenched his gun nervously and nodded firmly, noticing small beads of perspiration on his forehead being dislodged with the action. It really was time, wasn't it? No beforehand mental coaching, no methodical breathing to calm down. He was going to have to get used to this. Practice drills were nothing like reality.

"Three, two, one!"

Time slowed to a halt once again. Iida slid the door open and leapt in the room with trained efficiency, fearless and unperturbed. Todoroki blindly trailed him past the door frame, charging with his gun straight ahead. The end of the pistol soon found its aim pinned on a disheveled, shirtless man with black pants at his ankles. He was almost animalistic, clutching possessively a skinny hooker (a male?) in a girdle and biting at his well-bruised neck. Iida plunged in for the kill, tearing Decay off the young man and pinning him to the ground. Todoroki kept his gun instinctively pointed at the single largest source of danger in the room, but his focus was locked on the man now sitting on the bed.

He faced Todoroki, who was nonplussed by the oddly indecipherable expression on his freckled face. Todoroki swore he saw a complete star chart mapped out on that man's face. Those freckles.

Those freckles, and those eyes.

Todoroki didn't know it yet, but those eyes would change everything.


End file.
